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‘‘I know this is important to you,’’ he said carefully, ‘‘and I’m sorry if you’ve felt I’ve discounted your art while trying to find you a husband. That wasn’t my intention. I’ve just been a little . . . focused. Apparently
too
focused. I promise not to do that from now on, all right? I won’t push suitors on you. When you see a man you’re interested in, just let me know, and—’’
‘‘Leave me alone, Griffin,’’ she growled.
‘‘But—’’
‘‘Now.’’
‘‘Very well.’’ He rose and backed away, his hands held out defensively. ‘‘I’m sorry, Corinna, truly I am. But I wish you would believe me when I say I want to see you happy.’’
Rolling to face away from him again, she said, ‘‘I know that,’’ in a wan little voice.
He supposed it was the best he could expect for now.
He’d done all he could, he told himself as he left, softly closing the door between them. Too bad it wasn’t good enough. Turning to face the door, he banged his forehead against the polished wood, pressing hard.
He would never understand women, never figure out what made them tick. Never be able to decipher their moods. He felt bad that he’d made light of Corinna’s art, and he would pay more attention in the future. Make more of an effort to show her he cared and help advance her career, if he could find a way to do that. But he was also certain finding her a husband to love would improve her disposition.
Or at the very least, make someone else responsible for dealing with it.
He banged his head against the wood again.
‘‘Griffin,’’ he heard nearby. ‘‘Are you all right?’’
A low, sultry voice that was all too familiar.
He straightened and turned to see its owner, finding her standing there in a black dress that should have made her look drab, or at least less alluring than usual. But it didn’t. It had a wide neckline, revealing a good deal of her shoulders, and it rustled as she moved closer, the bodice hugging her seductive curves. Her hair had been done up formally for the reception at Lincolnshire House, leaving just a few loose chestnut tendrils that fell in soft waves around her face.
He swallowed hard and took an uneasy step back, bumping against Corinna’s door.
‘‘May I have a word with you?’’ Rachael glanced around the open corridor. ‘‘In private?’’
He nodded shortly and led the way to his study, aware all the while of her come-hither scent following behind him. Would this torture never end? He’d found her grandmother, hadn’t he? He’d tracked her mysterious origins, learned what had become of her father. What more did she want from him? Why wasn’t she with Lady Avonleigh over at Lincolnshire House, with her happy new family?
After ushering her into the study, he shut the door and turned to her. ‘‘What do you want, Rachael?’’
She blinked, no doubt taken aback by his unintended harshness. But she recovered her composure quickly. And when she answered him, it was in a tone that made a ball of heat smack him in the gut and spread down.
‘‘I want you to kiss me.’’
His pulse hammering, he hesitated . . . until she licked her lips.
 
‘‘Corinna?
A knock sounded on her closed door.
‘‘Are you all right?’’ Juliana called.
Corinna might have ignored anyone else, but there was no putting off Juliana. ‘‘I’ll live,’’ she muttered, rolling over and levering herself to sit on the edge of the bed. She shoved the claddagh necklace she’d been clutching under her pillow, and, with the back of a hand, mopped the last of her tears off her face. ‘‘Come on in.’’
Juliana did, holding up a piece of heavy, cream-colored paper with a large, broken red seal. ‘‘A letter came for you.’’
Just what she needed now, the news of her rejection. Well, at least the suspense would be over. ‘‘From the Royal Academy?’’
‘‘From the former Lord Lincolnshire’s solicitor. Addressed to ‘The Marquess of Cainewood.’ And then inside it says, ‘My Lord Marquess and Lady Corinna Chase.’ ’’
‘‘What does the solicitor want?’’ Not that Corinna really cared.
‘‘You’re requested to attend the reading of the late earl’s will at Mr. Lawless’s Queen Street offices on Monday at noon.’’
Corinna shrugged. ‘‘Lord Lincolnshire probably left us a trinket. One of his four hundred Ming vases or some such. For being kind through his last few days.’’
‘‘I don’t think he’d leave you and Griffin
one
vase. Two, maybe.’’ Juliana smiled, a transparent effort to raise Corinna’s spirits. ‘‘I’m famished. The reception at Lincolnshire House is winding down, so I walked over here to ask the staff to serve a family dinner before the rest of us go home. Will you come down and join us? And where is Griffin?’’
‘‘How should I know?’’ Corinna paused. ‘‘And how did you come to read a letter addressed to Griffin if you haven’t seen him?’’
‘‘Well, obviously,’’ Juliana said airily, ‘‘I opened it.’’

 

Chapter Fifty-one
Griffin had kissed Rachael in his study. He’d kissed her
across
his study. He’d kissed her as he’d eased her down to a long leather sofa, and now, a good thirty minutes later, he was lying half on top of her, still kissing her.
She’d been kissed before, but not by anyone who kissed anything like Griffin. He put his entire heart and soul into a kiss. When Griffin was kissing her, she was wholly convinced his mind was on nothing but that. On nothing but her. Which made it difficult to think about anything but him, either.
In fact, he made it difficult to think at all.
His kisses went from sweet to warm to burning and back again. From gentle to deep, from rushed to unhurried to frantic. Her senses were reeling, and her mouth seemed filled with the taste of him—hot male and brandy. Her blood seemed filled with him, too, coursing through her veins and beating a seductive rhythm in her ears.
When he finally drew away, when he struggled to his elbows and gazed down at her, she still found it hard to think. His eyes were so very intense, his dazed smile a little crooked, looking delicious. Placing a hand behind his neck, she pulled his mouth back down to hers and kissed him again.
A long while later he drew away once more, and her head finally cleared.
A little.
‘‘You’re not my cousin,’’ she murmured.
‘‘I know.’’
‘‘That means we can marry.’’
He was off her like a shot. ‘‘Oh, no.’’
‘‘Oh, no?’’ Shoving herself to a sitting position, she decided she’d probably shocked herself as much as him by saying that. But it was true.
She wanted to marry Griffin.
She loved him.
She wasn’t sure when she’d fallen in love, because she’d never admitted that to herself before—she hadn’t been able to, having never overcome thinking of him as a cousin. But she knew she could lean on Griffin; she knew she could depend on him. He’d always be there for her—he’d shown her that, hadn’t he? And wasn’t that the most important quality for a husband?
And it didn’t hurt that he was so handsome he made her breath catch. So tall and lean, so virile and masculine, so well built. His eyes such a pure leaf green, his jaw so strong and square, that slightly crooked smile so engaging.
‘‘Oh, yes,’’ she said, ‘‘I want to marry you.’’
‘‘You
don’t
want to marry me,’’ he returned flatly, a hint of panic in those green eyes. ‘‘You think I’m an irresponsible scapegrace.’’
‘‘Not anymore.’’ Or not exactly. Yes, he said stupid things, and he did stupid things sometimes, too. He had his flaws. But what man didn’t? At least she knew Griffin’s flaws—she knew what she was getting into with him.
And she’d never felt that powerful force of attraction with any man but Griffin.
She loved him just as he was, flaws and all.
‘‘I do want to marry you,’’ she disagreed, ‘‘and, really, how can you refuse me? You’ve been kissing me for half an hour.’’
He shifted on his feet, glancing away from her. ‘‘They were only kisses, Rachael. And you invited them. You cannot expect a man to turn down an offer like that.’’
He hadn’t kissed her only because she’d invited him. She might be a bloody idiot for not realizing there was no reason she couldn’t marry him, but she wasn’t so bird-witted she didn’t know when a man wanted her.
Griffin had been wanting her for two years, at the very least. A man didn’t look at a woman the way he looked at her—or kiss her the way he just had—unless he wanted her. And he loved her, too. She was sure of it. Look at all the trouble he’d gone to in order to find her family. A man didn’t go to such trouble for a woman he didn’t love.
She couldn’t let him get away with saying the time they’d just spent in each other’s arms had been
only kisses
. ‘‘Are you telling me all those kisses meant nothing?’’
He looked back to her. ‘‘That’s what I just said, isn’t it?’’
Oh, that had come too easily. She’d asked the wrong question. ‘‘You didn’t enjoy them, then? Not at all?’’
He hadn’t an answer for that, which didn’t surprise her. He’d be lying if he claimed he hadn’t enjoyed himself.
‘‘Tell me, Griffin,’’ she drawled, rather amused by his increasing discomfort, ‘‘would you approve of a man kissing Corinna for half an hour if he had no intention of marrying her?’’
He couldn’t deny that without lying, either, of course. To his credit, he didn’t. ‘‘No, I wouldn’t approve. But she’s my sister.’’
‘‘Well, I think I deserve the same respect as your sister.’’ Rising from the sofa, she reached for her reticule. ‘‘So unless you change your mind and declare your intentions, I trust you won’t ever kiss me again.’’
Her lips still felt tender from their previous kisses, and she wanted more. But she wasn’t worried she wouldn’t get them. Another of his flaws was resisting change, but he’d come around eventually.
She figured he’d be kissing her inside of a week.
He jumped to avoid her as she headed for the door. Reaching it, she placed her hand on the knob and glanced over her shoulder. ‘‘Will you be attending Lady Hammersmithe’s ball tomorrow night?’’
‘‘I’m planning to bring Corinna.’’
Deliberately she licked her lips, watching for a reaction, hiding a smile when she saw that reaction in his eyes. ‘‘I’ll see you there, then,’’ she practically purred as she opened the door and waltzed out.

 

Chapter Fifty-two
The atmosphere in Hampstead was very thick that Friday evening. So thick it seemed an effort to breathe. Just drawing air in and out of his lungs seemed to take everything Sean had.
Sitting across from Deirdre in his dining room, he shoved his plate across the mahogany table. ‘‘I’m not hungry. I’ve not eaten in three days, and I’m not hungry.’’
His sister knew what he’d lost. When he’d asked her where he could find the claddagh necklace, she hadn’t asked why. ‘‘ ’Tis sorry I am for you, Sean,’’ she said softly, her eyes flooded with sympathy.
He didn’t want sympathy—he wanted the calendar flipped back to April, to before he’d received that damned letter from Hamilton. Shifting his gaze away, he stared at a blue wall. ‘‘I’m not the one who has to go back to a husband I despise.’’
‘‘At least the man I love isn’t forbidden to me entirely, as Corinna is to you. I’ll give John a son and
then
I’ll move in with Daniel.’’
Skeptical, he looked back to her. ‘‘You’d leave your child?’’
Her chin in the air was so familiar. ‘‘Rather than stay with John, yes.’’
‘‘If you say so,’’ he murmured. But he knew she wouldn’t. Once she had a son or a daughter, she’d change her mind. Hamilton would banish Deirdre and their offspring to the countryside, and she’d live there, bored out of her mind, for the rest of her life.
And even should she find the will to leave her child, would Daniel Raleigh wait a year or two or more while she made a son with Hamilton?
He doubted that as well.
‘‘Two letters, sir.’’ A footman walked in, holding them out. ‘‘One for you and one for the lady.’’
With its large red seal, Sean’s letter looked important. As the servant left, he cracked the wax and unfolded the paper.
‘‘Who is it from?’’ Deirdre asked.
‘‘A solicitor on Queen Street in Cheapside. A Mr. Peregrine Peabody. He’s wishing to meet with me Monday at noon.’’
‘‘Regarding what?’’
‘‘He doesn’t say.’’ Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. ‘‘I assume I will finally learn who’s been poking around in my business, and what he’s managed to trump up to ruin me or put me in prison. And what it’s going to take to prove him wrong.’’ He glanced at the folded paper Deirdre held, recognizing the scrawl on the outside as the same on the damned letter he’d received back in April. ‘‘What does your husband want now? His uncle isn’t in the grave even half a day. Is the rotter summoning you to his bed already?’’
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